fun and games
by takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Jokes, quips, and poorly timed pranks aside, losing a leg - even part of one - isn't as easy as it looks.


He's not the youngest amputee in Berk's history, but he's the youngest one in a _while,_ which turns out to carry its own sort of dubious honor.

And really, it could be worse. His being the only adolescent stumper on the island has a lot less to do with everyone else being better at ducking and a lot more to do with everyone else being better at dying; it's a grim fact, but there's a reason he only has a handful of peers in his age-group, and a significant number of his would-be companions had died in raids and accidents from less serious injuries. And given his, well, _everything_ , it's nothing short of a miracle that he of all people should make it through.

Doesn't necessarily make it easier to deal with, though.

* * *

Here are the ways in which Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III was lucky:

1\. he survived

2\. he slept through the worst of the pain

3\. he had friends around to help

Here are the ways in which Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III was _not_ lucky:

1\. he lost nearly half his leg

2\. it never really stopped hurting

3\. he could never really forget about it

Put like that, it looks fair. It looks like everything evens out, or comes out in his favor. But that's not how it works, and he really, _really_ hates how the lists make it look like it is.

* * *

Honestly, the sleeping-through-winter thing probably helped. It probably helped a lot, actually. Still, waking up to find that months have passed since the last day you can remember, and _oh by the way_ you lost a few pounds below the knee while you were at it, isn't exactly a walk in the sheepfold. _Walk._ Hah. Remember learning to do that? No, of course not. But lucky you, you get to learn again! How fun. How exciting. What an _opportunity._

Dear gods.

And it's not like it didn't hurt at _all,_ anymore. It just wasn't mind-numbingly excruciating all the time. Just _minorly_ excruciating _most_ of the time, which, sure, could be worse, but still. Not great. Better than being dead, worse than still being whole. See? Put like that, it looks like an easy answer. Would you rather be dead or crippled? Yeah, that's easy. But you know what's even easier? Choosing between crippled and whole. That's definitely easier.

* * *

The first few weeks are, without a doubt, the hardest.

Jumping on Toothless for a race within minutes of waking up turns out to be – surprise – a really terrible idea. It seems worth it at the time; not so much a few hours later.

Because here's the thing: certain parts of the body were not meant to be walked on. Most, in fact. Feet were, but that's just about it. Anything else, no matter how healed up and solid it seems, has no interest whatsoever in doing the job. Don't even bother asking. And what's left of his leg below the knee may not be bleeding and swollen and bruised anymore, but it's not ready to carry him. It's not ready to be his new foot. Because that's what happens, see. Something has to take the weight, even if there's a new wooden limb at the end of it. What you have left becomes your foot, and anything attached to it is just a really tall, uncomfortable shoe.

It takes time; it takes practice; it takes pain.

But he survived the greatest battle of his people's history, he survived completely overturning centuries of traditions and beliefs, he survived a childhood of... well, being treated a little less kindly than yak dung, to put it delicately, so he's not going to let little things like stairs, or hills, or – dear _Thor,_ they have a lot of hills – or, or _rocks,_ uneven _rocks_ get the better of him.

They do, though, for a little bit, and he eventually gives in: avoids the ones he can, lets Toothless carry him over the ones he can't.

He spends a lot of time at home, which. Also stairs. And a hill. Stairs _on_ a hill. Yay, two of his new favorite things.

 _Yeah, no kidding, right?_ he'd said once, drier than a barn on fire. _Pain_ – love _it._

 _It's only fun if you get a scar out of it._

Funny, actually – it'd been more fun before he'd gotten a scar, when it was just him and Toothless and a world that suddenly seemed less intimidating, less gloomy, less doomed. Now everyone else is in that world with them, and he's already put the time and effort into figuring out how to live in it, so everyone else just figures, naturally, why not ask Hiccup? Why not get _him_ to solve all of our problems for us? _He's_ the one with the answers, _he's_ the one who knows, sure the lad's only got one foot but he's young, he'll be fine, he's one of us now, after all.

That's why he spends a lot of time at home.

Because he's tired of people, and also just plain tired.

But after the first few weeks, the constant exhaustion starts to fade, as do the constant pain and the constant irritation.

So that's something.

* * *

He deals with it. Deals with being a hero and becoming a leader, and deals with all the perks and pranks that go with it.

Because yeah, there are a lot of pranks.

He's never not respected his dad, but it's not until he's expected to deal with other people's petty problems and stubborn stances that he really starts to understand him.

* * *

Things are better when they set up the Edge. He has a concrete purpose again, as well as a confidence he sometimes lacks on Berk. He's nowhere near ready to be chief of an entire tribe, but managing his peers (his _friends_ ) in the area of his expertise is rewarding and exciting and _fun_. He feels more alive, more sure of himself and of his place in the world.

His leg doesn't bother him once during the first few months, even with all the building and all the adventures, and he finds himself hoping that maybe he's finally gotten past the worst of it.

Just when he's almost forgotten how bad it can be, though, it comes for him.

The sun's been up for a while, but it's still dark in his hut (thanks to some pretty solid engineering, if he does say so himself). By the sounds drifting up from the lower parts of the island, all the others have been up and at it for a few hours now, with nothing to suggest that his absence is proving disastrous. That probably won't last long.

Toothless drops his head on the edge of the bed and gives a low, baleful chirrup, ear flaps back and pupils huge.

"Yeah, me too," Hiccup sighs. "Sorry, bud, but it looks like another one of those days." The pain flares again, and he grimaces. "Feels like another of those days, anyway." Toothless' smooth, warm nose finds its way under his hand, and he scratches obligingly. "So, whaddya say? Wanna take a vacation day with me?"

This happens every so often, and while he can usually feel it coming on, it had hit last night with no warning and still isn't showing any signs of easing. It's gonna be a long, fun day of lying flat on his back. In the dark. By himself. Yay.

He doesn't manage to sleep, but he manages to lose track of time for a bit, and is startled back to awareness by the sound of footsteps creaking their way up the ladder to his loft. He hadn't even heard the door open, which rules out about half the people on the island. Based on the sounds from the ladder, though, it's probably not Fishlegs, which leaves—

"Hiccup?" Astrid says quietly, poking her head up over the edge of the loft. "Are you okay?"

It's hard to pretend that he is when it's been light for hours and he's still in bed, and Astrid knows that, and knows that he knows, so he doesn't really try. Even if he did try, Toothless would give him away, with his big green eyes and the way he's curled up by the bed with his head resting on the edge, watching him balefully and making small, sad noises whenever he flinches or his breath hitches.

"Been better," he manages. Been a lot worse, too, but now is what matters, and now is edging on unbearable. Usually it only hurts where it isn't, but right now it's reaching up through the rest of the leg and into his back, and he honestly doesn't think he could move if he had to.

Astrid climbs the rest of the way up to the loft but doesn't come any closer, just sits cross-legged on the floor. She knows when to stay out of his space. He appreciates that about her. "Your leg?"

"Is it ever anything else?" he asks tightly. Which isn't entirely fair: sometimes it's other things, but this is the one thing he consistently can't ignore.

"I didn't know it was still bothering you this much."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't." It's harsh, harsher than she deserves: of everyone on the Edge, she and Fishlegs are the only ones who don't make the jokes. Even Heather did once, which, yeah, that hurt. He could tell she didn't mean it, had just picked it up in her time with them and hadn't thought before repeating it, but still.

Astrid just shrugs, though, admitting the point. "You work hard to hide it," she agrees. "I can't even imagine how much energy that takes."

"It's honestly fine, usually, but sometimes it—" He stiffens, breaks off. Yep, there it is. Right on cue.

"Yeah."

They're quiet for a while, Hiccup trying to keep his breathing even and Astrid trying not to fidget.

"Do you need anything?" she asks eventually. "We could probably stand to restock our medical supplies, but there's gotta be something that can help."

"No, there isn't," he sighs. "I've tried plenty, in my time, and nothing seems to be able to help with _this_." He gestures loosely at his lower half.

"I'm sorry," Astrid says quietly. "I know it doesn't change anything, but I wish I'd known sooner. If only so you didn't have to hide."

"Oh, I've spent plenty of time hiding. I'm pretty good at it by now."

"I know. But you shouldn't have to anymore."

A particularly nasty spike runs up his spine, and he can't quite keep quiet. Toothless growls in response, and Astrid shoots to her feet on instinct, hand going to her axe, then sighs.

"There has to be _something_ ," she insists. "You can't seriously be planning to just lie there in agony until it stops."

"I mean, it's always worked before," he says drily and yeah, he's not in a great mood, and he's probably going to say something he regrets in about two minutes, but to be fair he is in _so much pain right now._ Even breathing hurts. Everything is hard when breathing hurts. "Look, Astrid, I appreciate your concern, but I promise there's nothing you can do. There's nothing I can do. We just gotta...wait it out, and hope that there isn't some terrible emergency until I'm back on my f—" He cuts himself off, but it's too late. Gods, even _he's_ making the jokes now.

"Okay," Astrid says quietly, unconvinced but at least not acknowledging his slip. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure. Just try to keep the others at least vaguely in line for a day or so?"

She nods. "I can do that."

"Great. Thanks, Astrid. Sorry I'm so, you know, but thanks for stopping by." It's definitely a first, but he manages to keep that to himself.

"Should I come back? Later, I mean?"

He shrugs. As much as he can, at least. "If you want." She won't, but that's fine. He honestly still prefers to be alone for this.

"See you later, then," she says, and steps down onto the ladder. "I hope you feel better."

It's a nice thought, but he knows better. He closes his eyes and forcibly unclenches his jaw.

It's gonna be a long, long day.

* * *

He still falls. He still trips. He still has to hop around like a fool when the prosthesis gets ripped off or damaged.

(And people still laugh, of course. People always laugh.)

There's nothing to make you feel helpless like being so entirely dependent on a block of wood and a few scraps of metal.

* * *

He gets sores, sometimes. Huge, painful blisters that cover the skin where flesh meets wood and don't go away until they're cut open and drained.

He has to go back to Berk for that, ever since the time he tried to do it himself on the Edge and ended up so sick with fever he'd had to be taken to Gothi on someone else's dragon. He doesn't remember whose, and never admitted enough to find out.

Even Gothi can't make any guarantees, though. He was a sickly kid, and he's stronger now, but sometimes his body just can't handle everything that's been done to it.

He's at home, his home on Berk, and Gothi had drained his blisters two weeks ago and somehow he's still sick. He might even be _very_ sick, but he's not really sure. It could be the weather, the kind of wet winter chill that seems to strike everyone down, or it could just be that he's weak, but his bed's been pushed so close to the hearth that he's practically _in_ it and he still can't stop shivering. The flight from the Edge probably hadn't helped, being through a blizzard and all, but he hadn't been able to wait any longer and now he's paying for his impatience.

Hopefully the others are doing better than he is, since they'd all come back as well.

"Hiccup." His father's voice, but the quiet, gentle version he's been hearing for days.

" _Hiccup_." He drags open his eyes, sees Stoick's worried, blurry face swimming in front of him. "You need your medicine, come on." He's drunk so much willow bark in the last week and a half it's a wonder he hasn't turned into a tree. Stoick slips a hand under his neck, carefully lifts his head so he can sip at the cup held to his lips with the other. It tastes horrible, and it doesn't do anything, so what's the point? But he drinks it anyway, because he hates to see his dad look so worried about anything, let alone him.

His dad probably thought these days were behind him. It's been what, five years since he lost his foot? Five years since he stopped being Hiccup the Useless. Guess he never really stopped that, then.

"What day is it?" he manages to ask, though it echoes strangely in his ears.

"Thor's day," Stoick answers, lowering him back down to the bed.

" _That's_ appropriate," Hiccup mutters nonsensically, and slips back into unconsciousness with the ghost of his father's hand on his forehead.

It's another two days before the fever breaks, and another week before he's allowed to get out of bed. It's another week after that before he can bear to look at his prosthesis.

* * *

One of the twins' Loki Day pranks involves a trip line and a pulley, intended to leave the victim dangling upside down several feet off the ground but otherwise unharmed. It would have worked that way, too, if he'd stepped into it with his real foot, but he hadn't. It was the other one, the one he currently despises with every inch of his being, so instead of dangling, he falls, and dislocates his shoulder with a sickening crunch when he hits the ground.

Ruffnut goes for Astrid while Tuffnut apologizes as sincerely as Hiccup's ever heard him apologize to anyone and helps him fashion a makeshift sling, then pulls down the rope to get his foot back. Astrid arrives in a fury but slips his shoulder back into place as gently as she can, then rounds on the twins only to find that they'd already slipped away.

"When will they _learn?"_ she snarls.

"Probably never," Hiccup admits, leaned back against a tree with his eyes closed, waiting for the stars to stop floating across his vision. "It wasn't meant for me, though, and anyone else would have been fine."

He can _feel_ her staring at him. "That doesn't make it okay," she says.

He shrugs, then winces. He's the most common casualty of accidents as it is; short of regrowing his foot, there's not much he or anyone else can do about it at this point.

That night, however, he dreams of the last moments of the battle with the Red Death. Everything seems the same until he realizes that his foot is already gone. Toothless dives after him as he falls, but the prosthesis comes off in his teeth, and Hiccup falls into the flames.

He wakes up sweating and breathless, phantom fire on his skin and in his lungs. Toothless climbs onto the bed with him, and Hiccup falls asleep again in the cocoon of his wings.

* * *

It's not all bad. Sometimes the jokes are funny, the accidents harmless and hilarious, the underestimations incredibly valuable.

Sometimes he manages to forget that he isn't whole.

Sometimes he manages not to care.

He used to look forward to the days when he could be like Gobber, seemingly oblivious to everything that was different about him, everything that was wrong with him. But now he knows better, knows that even Gobber still has bad days and is just that much better at hiding it.

But he's better now than he was almost six years ago, and that counts for something. That counts for a lot. Especially when he considers what it saved him.

Toothless ambles up to him as he sits on the edge of a cliff, dangling the stump of his leg into the empty space, and drops down next to him with a _whumpf_.

"What's on your mind, bud?" Hiccup asks, patting the closest patch of dragon, which happens to be a leg. Toothless swings his tail around, landing the fins in Hiccup's lap. Hiccup runs his fingers over the seam where cloth meets scale, then unbuckles the straps and pulls the prosthesis off.

"Yeah, same here. Fresh air feels good, doesn't it?"

Toothless rumbles in agreement and drops his head onto his front paws.

"So, just napping today? That the plan?" He pulls his leg up and scootches around to rest his back against Toothless' flank. The sun is warm on his face, and the sea breeze is clean and crisp. He closes his eyes, and truly relaxes for the first time in days. "I like it, bud. I like it a lot."

* * *

...

* * *

 _well well well look who finally wrote a fic for the first fandom she joined_ eight years ago.

 _I started writing this to deal with two years of chronic pain topped off with considerable anxiety regarding the hip surgery intended to fix it. The surgery went really well, though, and I was actually intending to abandon the wip until I got cocky, walked way too much for someone who only recently finished six weeks on crutches, and woke up this morning in a whole lot of pain. So, you know, Hiccup is a pretty relatable character even if I still have all my original limbs._

 _Thanks for reading! Please don't be afraid to let me know what you think, since I discovered the existence of fandom and fanfic through these movies but have somehow never gotten around to writing for them._


End file.
